Kaleidoscope
by Suikyou
Summary: A collection of vignettes from the perspective of a handful of main characters in the Resident Evil universe. Inspired by the Song Prompt meme. Spin the wheel and watch the new patterns form...
1. Home

Greetings, yall! Sometime back, Ms. Magnificent Kiwi challenged me to the Song Prompt meme. Basic rules: put your music software on random, and for every song that comes up, write a little story to it. The catch is that you only have the length of the song to write to. In my case, I would pause when the song came on, look up the lyrics, pick some as the actual prompt, and then hit play and write through the song.

As it turns out, they're kind of addictive. And since I wrote so many of them, I thought I might as well share.

The following parts are not so much a story as a collection of vignettes, told from various perspectives, arranged in parts around a loose theme. I am still working on some of the arrangements, so there are more to come. Each one is prefaced by the artist, song title, and lyric I used as a prompt. Sometimes the response fits the prompt; sometimes, it was just a jumping off point for my brain to go careening around a character's brain. They haven't been edited in any consistent fashion, except for the occasional typo fix and to add formatting for posting here.

**Disclaimer**: I own _nothing_: not the games, not the characters, not the setting, not the songs nor the lyrics nor the tunes they dance to. I'm just making weird little sand castles in my part of the sandbox, that's all.

**Rating**: Right now, **T**. Within another part or two, it'll go to **M**. As with the following two, parts will contain specific warnings. The only warning that applies to all of these is that EVERYTHING IS KINDA DEPRESSING because it's hard to write a joke in the space of a three minute song.

**Pairings**: None. Later, there'll be some Ada/Leon, Claire/Leon, Jill/Chris, what you could call Ada/Claire, and possibly Jill/Leon or Leon/Jill/Chris.

**Spoilers**: These will cover pretty much the entire history of Resident Evil, including _Revelations _and trailer spoilers for _RE 6_.

**Thanks to**: Kiwi for getting me started; the Lovely Betas Faye and Himawari for their help with the arrangements, checking typos, and listening to me whine; and, of course, everyone who reads these. Much appreciated, ya'll!

* * *

Cake - "Frank Sinatra"  
_A faintly glimmering radio station_

Chris has had a lot of homes.

There was his parents' house in Missouri. Hasn't thought about it in years. Had a slope to the backyard that made running dangerous sometimes. He nearly twisted his ankle back there.

There's his grandparents' house in Oklahoma. Wasn't a huge stay there before he ended up with his Uncle. Already divorced. Cop. Had no kids. Didn't really want kids, either. His house was a tiny duplex, crammed with the detritus of his life.

High school was a home, in its own way. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs was, too, for four years. Then pilot training.

And then nothing. Because he did the right thing.

Now his home is a Motel 6. His suitcase is the jump bag he should be using for missions, but it's just packed with shit. Smokes. The occasional bottle. Five of the same shirt. Three of the same pants. Socks. Boxers.

Or sometimes it's a ditch on the side of the road.

Or sometimes it's a shelter. He has money, but shelters are sometimes the only places that'll let him in when he looks like this.

It breaks up his idea of home into pieces. He finds it in the small things now. In a room with a decent bed. In the drift of a curl of smoke. In the bottom of a glass.

And sometimes, in the echo of an old song, stirring a memory of home in years past.

Sometimes.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Radiohead - "No Surprises"  
_A heart that's full up like a landfill  
__A job that slowly kills you  
__Bruises that won't heal_

Leon didn't have an apartment. Or a house. A townhouse, a condo, all those luxuries people knew as "home" - none of it.

He had a room. He shared the house with some other agents, the kind that just needed a bed and a mirror to shave in front of before hitting the next job. It had some things in it. They were mostly work things, though there were a few little mementos from his jobs.

_Scraps of fabric, blue and bloodied. Scraps of fabric, white and bloodied. A keychain with a cute animal on it. A knife, blade dull. _

He really shouldn't be surprised by how much he saved that had blood on it. But sometimes, every once in a while, he had to stop and shake his head at it.

Sometimes between jobs, he would lie on his bed-comfortable, high class sheets, money had to spent on something besides clothes and weapons-and think about where he would live. What kind of apartment. What kind of house. What would the kitchen be like. The bathroom. Would he do his bed in grey? Would he have plants?

Would someone want to share it with him?

Then he shook his head. He wasn't cut out for a home. His life was his work. His friends were his work. Everything was his work, until the job was done.

Whenever that would be.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Headless Chicken - "Mr. Moon"  
_Mr. Moon you walk upon the water_  
_You shine like oil on machinery_  
_You're sharper than a knife_  
_And I'll love you all my life_  
_Don't leave me here alone_  
_Please take me with you_

There are some luxuries to being a world class spy.

Oh, there's certain death and danger to it, of course. There's trials of the head and trials of the heart. Ada knows, in that distant way she feels things these day, that her sins are unforgivable. What she has tried to do-well. That, it seems, will always be a secret. The grand scheme will never be known. All that remains is the underlying damage, a chessboard of pieces scattered. And people-some people-always focused on the pieces. Never on their pattern.

But it has allowed her to have this home. And on nights like this, she is free to step into her backyard, dressed as she pleases, and walk down to the docks.

She brings juice to drink. Drinking alcohol, she has found, is for work. Sipping her own hand pressed fruit cocktail? That is a pleasure of home.

The moon hangs over the lake, swollen with silver. It lays a path on the water to the end of the dock, and she dips her toe into it.

As a girl, she'd always hoped when she pulled out her foot, it would be coated in silver moonlight. As a woman-well, sometimes she can't help but wish for the same thing.

She raises her juice to the moon. "Hello," she whispers to the night, in the language she no longer speaks for anything but business. "You called, and I am here."

She lays on the dock, drifts her fingers through the silver. "And as long as you are here, I'm not leaving. So-don't leave me."

Invocation for a cloudless night. And on this night, again, it works.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

J Ralph - "One Million Miles Away"  
_One million miles away...from home._

Her cell is four white walls, a bucket, and a pile of rags.

The bucket is obvious, as are the walls. The rags are for her to sleep in. After all, Wesker says-with that rare hint of humor, the tone in his voice she has learned to hate more than any other-beds are terrible for a supple and lithe creature such as herself. Most of the rags end up being used as some sort of blanket; concrete floors aren't terribly uncomfortable, but they do get cold.

Her apartment in DC had white walls.

She tries not to think about it. She has so little free time for her brain these days between missions and the seds they use on her between missions. She tries to think of something-productive. How she can get around the P-30. How she can somehow sabotage the work Excella and Wesker are doing. How she can shore up her defenses so it only seems like she's under. How she can send a message out, even. What she can do to expose this to the world.

It's a futile line of thinking, and part of her realizes that. But it's a better line of thought than just missing home.

She takes time out to just miss home sometimes, too, though. She can't help it, and she's learned to handle that. Her life isn't normal anymore, and the emotions inside her need to come out at some point. Sometimes, when she's on the P-30, she'll just start to cry. Sometimes she comes back to her white walls and spends the whole time throwing up in her bucket.

She does swear, though, that she'll never have white walls again.

Ever.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Self - "Stay Home"  
_I wanna stay home today_  
_Don't want no company_  
_No way_

No matter what her file may say, Sheva is not a raw recruit. She worked with several SOUs for months before she got her position as one of the rare West African BSAA SOAs. Her talents are trained, and she can handle herself in a crisis. She wished people would answer her damn questions during a crisis, but she's getting better with that. There's only so much history certain people can give out when they're rushing between rooms and bodies.

But what she is raw at is the aftermath of a big operation.

Decontamination.

Debrief.

More debrief.

More debrief.

Until she has told the story so many times she's sure her head is going to explode.

Three days after she's released to go home, when her mandatory time rests on the keel of her feelings, Josh calls.

"You comin' in?"

"Nope," Sheva says, idly dunking a tea ball.

A sigh. "You want me to come over?"

"No offense, Josh," she says with a sigh, "but the longer before I see anyone I work with, the better."

He chuckles at that. "Reports all right, though?"

"I'll wait on those 'til tomorrow."

She hangs up the phone. She drinks her tea.

Finally, she rests.


	2. The Working Life

So. About a week isn't so bad, is it?

The theme of this section is WORK, which naturally covers everything before missions and after missions and nothing during, because it's hard to write a battle scene during a three minute song. (I'll take it as a challenge for the next set?) And it covers other workers in the universe. Which leads me right up to -

**WARNING**: This section contains spoilers for _Resident Evil: Revelations, _in the song responses to "Triangular" and "Write What You Know." Big spoilers! Game and story defining spoilers! Epilogue spoilers! So cover your eyes and scroll as need be for those two. (Also, if you have a chance, that's a game worth watching a playthrough or reading a summary of, as it is full of fascinating new things AND fun plot holes.) This section also has the usual angst (turned up to AHNGST on occasion), swear words, random second person, an interesting definition of "strip," and Wesker being creepy. Because he's _good _at it.

**Rating**: Remains T. For now.

**Thanks to**: The Lovely Betas Faye and Himawari for going, "No, seriously, stop screwing with it"; the folks I play ME 3 multi with, who keep me from endlessly refreshing my stats; both reviewers for leaving lovely comments; and, really, everyone who stays to read at least one of these. May you enjoy!

* * *

Death Cab for Cutie - "This Temporary Life"  
_the glass is full, the glass is broke,  
__and every day dissolves and there's no hope  
__of ever leaving this temporary life_

Alarm goes off.

Funny that he keeps setting an alarm at all; he's always awake before it. He's come to know how light shades over his ceiling better than he'd ever admit to any sort of professional. Or his sister.

Roll over. Turn alarm off. Wouldn't want to disturb anyone else in this building. They leave him alone, and he likes it that way.

Stretch. Do first part of day's exercises. Consider shower, decide against. He'll have a shower tonight at the gym.

Pad to the bathroom. Stop, as always, and look at the mirror.

He always expects that one day, it'll show. Somehow, some day, he'll wake up, and the scars will be etched all across his body: the rifts, the gaps, the creases and creaks, the places where he's broken and sewn back together, all over again.

The scars remain only on his eyes, though.

And only when he looks hard enough for them.

And that's it for reflecting (ha) for the day.

Piss. Wash hands (don't look at mirror). Coffee. Breakfast, maybe. Clothes.

Off to work.

The world is waiting for him, Chris Redfield.

And it doesn't care what he's feeling or not anymore.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Radiohead - "Optimistic"  
_Flies are buzzing around my head  
__Vultures circling the dead  
__Picking up every last crumb_

Leon goes to sleep on planes and wakes up on planes. Sometimes in the middle he dreams he's on a plane. Sometimes, though, he's on a helicopter, though it's always a helicopter that feels off.

Leon's dreams have gotten to be very pragmatic since the government took over his life.

He sleeps. He wakes. He works. Sometimes, there's a break in the work, and he blinks and wonders if he's just woken up from another dream. If in this life, Raccoon City never happened. Or maybe, Raccoon City doesn't exist. He's just a butterfly who dreamt he was a man who went through hell, and finally he's awake. Time to go pollinate some shit.

Leon's waking mind is sometimes not so pragmatic.

It's important, though, to keep that part of him sharp on the job. The job likes to throw so many weird things at him, and it is his job - somewhere in his contract, he's sure it's written down, probably underlined twice and bolded or maybe put in that red WARNING WARNING color - to stay cool under fire. Contractually obligated. He is the US representative to the whacked out world of bioterror, and he's got colors to wear. Captain America, just in an awesome jacket.

He has been accused in his down time of being both boring and vapid. This sometimes comes from a fellow employee, and sometimes from a lady. He always takes it with a grin, and buys them all another drink.

He doesn't say to them: you'd empty your head, too, if you'd seen what I've seen. And continue to go back to it. I know what's waiting for me out there, and I'll just leave it there, all right?

No. No need. Just grin, and buy the next round.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Ted Leo & The Pharmacists - "Counting Down the Hours"  
_As I go on  
__Wondering if I've got a soul and  
__Counting down the hours 'till it goes_

The intel is waiting for him on the seat when he gets on the helicopter. It usually is at this point.

Funny how the BSAA can learn. Funny how just a little pressure, and he's got them trained. 'Course, really, they've got the power, the leverage. They could revoke his permission to travel. They could take away his status. They could lock down his gun.

But they don't. They've got their guilt to expunge. Fun little symbiosis they have going on here, but Chris isn't going to think too deeply about it. He'll just remember it if he ever needs to.

(And one day, he will.)

He rests, first. Lets the chop - chop of the rotors lull him, louder than the usual white noise but effective on him now. If he had a choice between a thunderstorm to sleep to or this sound, he knew which one would work better on him now.

And when it's all settled inside him, he picks up the info. Time to move on. Next mission waits.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Matthew Good - "Ex-Pats of the Blue Mountain Symphony Orchestra"  
_And if it can't get the blood off our hands  
__Then you and I we'll get it off ourselves  
__So another day_

It was nice to have a good extraction, Jill thought as she slumped against the side of the helicopter. Normally, they were on the run from something - a mob they didn't have enough bullets for, enemies too strong for the bullets they had, an explosion of their own making, the usual - but this time, they'd managed a pretty quick in and out.

Didn't make the mission any less gruesome. So many humans, so many states of infection - and a new set of lives on their hands.

She glanced at Chris across the way. He had his head against the back of the helicopter, eyes closed. A peaceful sight, if it weren't for his fists clenched on his thighs.

She wondered if they felt tacky. They both wore gloves on missions, for shooting and to reduce somewhat the chance of infection. But it didn't matter that 80% of her hand was covered, the blood always seemed to run under the leather, cake against the edges of her fingers and palm. And on a mission like this -

She leaned over and brushed his knee.

"Mm?"

"When we get back," she said, putting on a cocky smile she didn't feel, "drinks are on me."

_I'm here, if you need me._

Both eyes opened, and he regarded her down the bridge of his nose. Took her in. Did his own assessment. She did her best not to flex her fingers, to show the growing feeling of tackiness there, to show how her mind had picked up every minor blood stain present.

They never killed with their bare hands. It just felt like it, sometimes.

Then, slowly, he nodded. "First round," he said. "Second is on me."

_Right back at you._

Her mouth quirked, but she nodded back. "You got a deal," she said.

They'd go. They'd drink a little. They'd unwind together, with someone who wouldn't mind the jumpiness, until the feeling of humanity came back to the both of them.

Crisis: slightly averted.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Anouk & Sarah Bettens - "I Alone" (cover)  
_I'll read to you here, save your eyes  
__you'll need them, your boat is at sea_

The thing is, no matter how good you are, people get hurt.

That's a fact. Can't be avoided. This isn't a movie, or a kid's cartoon show, where body counts are pushed under the offscreen rug. This is their life, made of the danger and the dull, and when that danger kicks in - people get hurt.

And sometimes, it's one of the two of you.

Not the scrapes and bruises and tiny scars hurt, either. That you both take with you after every mission. You've got a collection that'd shame some of those on active duty now, you're pretty sure. 'Cause your active duty doesn't end, is all.

This time, it's Chris's turn up for the big injury. For the injury that lands him in a hospital bed. He's breathing on his own, at least. You fucking hate watching him on a respirator. Bad enough for that IV to hang there, for that machine to beep at you with its tiny, high pitched recriminations.

You read to him then. He does the same for you when you're out. You read for him, and you read for you, because if you stare at him any longer, you're going to do or say something stupid.

That's not the thing you're allowed. People get hurt. You're just supposed to take it.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Maaya Sakamoto - "Triangler"  
_It hurts.  
__Taking an optimistic lie for the truth hurts._

It takes time for Parker to be allowed to talk.

Oh, he can *speak*. But between the doctors poking and prodding him and the BSAA's insistence on a debrief, he doesn't really get a chance to ask something of his own. Not for the first few days.

They tell him about Chris and Jill, about the team on the _Semiramis_, about Keith and Quint. About O'Brian leaving his role. About the monster that took that ship down into the sea. They give him a lot of information, but they never really touch on what, to him, is the important thing.

"How did I get out there?"

"We were hoping you could tell us," he's told.

"Raymond," he replies. "Raymond Vester. He was on that ship - he helped me get off it." He shakes his head. "But I don't remember - " He wants to touch his leg, the bandages there, or his head, where there are no bandages, and see if either sparks something. Raymond had taken his hand. Raymond had taken it all in hand there, at the end.

But where was he now?

And what was he truly up to?

"That is something Director O'Brian might be able to tell you," say the agents who've come to debrief him.

But Parker isn't dumb about how the BSAA works. O'Brian's taken all his little secrets with him. And it seems he will never know what happened to the man he knew as Cadet - and as a friend.

That he thought was a friend.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Incubus - "Monuments and Melodies"  
_And each scar I bear sings  
__Monuments to where I have been  
__And melodies to where I am going_

Claire offers Jill a place to stay when she gets back from Africa, and then promptly goes back to work. It means that she and Chris have some time together, just the two of them, to deal with some of the crap that currently lays between them. And even with the rescue in Africa, there is some crap that lays between them. There always has been as partners, but Jill's heard some rumors about what Chris has been up while she's been dead. And there's a good way to confirm it.

She asks him to strip. She demonstrates what she means by taking off her shirt for him first. She's got a sports bra on underneath, nothing more than he'd see at a beach. But his eyes still take her in for a long moment, and she knows that they're partially focused on the white bandage on her chest. The wounds no longer seep, but it'll minimize the scars to keep them covered and slathered in antibiotics.

Jill's fine with scars. But she'd also like to wear a V-neck again in her lifetime without too many questions, too.

Chris follows orders all right, when he understands them. He pulls off his shirt and turns around, rolls his shoulders fore and back, letting her see the new scars that lace his skin.

She steps forward, hand hovering in the air between touching him and covering her mouth. He - he doesn't look like he crawled through barbed wire. But there are so many more on his skin than before, the little dings and nicks and scrapes that mark each mission permanently on all of them.

There's so many stories there. More than she thought.

He turns to look at her again, and she covers her mouth at the others she can see now, on his chest and arms.

And through her fingers, whispers softly, "Tell me."

Better to start now than later.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Stars - "Write What You Know"  
_Write what you know..._

O'Brien flipped through his notes, then dropped the yellow pad on the desk with a sigh. It had always been his dream to write a detective novel, but with the state of the world and bioterror as it was, he had more important things to do. There were always more important things to do.

But now he had all the time in the world, and with the pension checks steadily settling extra tidbits on top of his savings, the comfort to do it in. Except all the time in the world didn't translate to ideas now, did it?

Well. Except the one.

The BSAA wouldn't like it. He was fairly sure Chris and Jill and the rest of them wouldn't be too happy with it, either. But if he changed some details, tweaked this and that, fiddled with the names -

It was a damn workable story. It was a story that'd captivate an audience, he knew that for damn sure.

And didn't they always say to write what you knew? This he knew inside and out.

He licked his pen - unnecessary habit, that - flipped the page, and started his next outline.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Vienna Teng - "Soon Love Soon"  
_And we will be as one god  
__And we will be as one people_

Jill is an experimental subject. Soon, he will release her to understand the full nature of her experiment. Soon, he will transition her to the next part of the plan, the one that Excella will think is her own. Which is fine by him; he understands how to feed her ego now, to make the thoughts he has had months ago appear to be her own. She has ways of stoking his own fires. It is an excellent circle they have between them, and he can admit that.

But for now, he likes to summon her to him. He opens her tube partially, though without releasing her bonds, enough for the fields that hold it to the necessary temperature and pressure to stay in place. It is easier to look upon her this way. To talk with her this way, though she never replies.

He doesn't need those replies. He just needs a focus. In Jill, he has an almost perfect one, for what she represents: the beginning days of his rise, her part in STARS and in the hunts for him across the globe, her connection to Chris. In a way, he feels that talking to her is like talking to him.

He will bring Chris to him in the fullness of time. He will guide his mind to understanding what will come. He will show him the path he has so long denied for himself and others.

All will be one. The virus will ensure that. They will writhe together, a new fullness of humanity.

And he will rule over them all.

God in him, man in them.

Triumphant and peaceful at last.


	3. A memoria

Oh ho, UNDER a week. Aren't I just aiming high these days? And I think the next few parts will go up fairly fast beyond this on top of that, like I have some sort of deadline or something.

Some of my favorite songs in this batch. (Songs, not responses, though I like some in this batch more than some others.) And on that note...

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the songs; those are owned by their respective artists and labels, and all rights reserved to them. I don't own any of the characters or wringers they've been put through; that is all Capcom. ALL CAPCOM. I'm just coloring weird things in their coloring book with these.

**Disclaimer 2: **Spoilers for the _Resident Evil 6_ trailers, demos, and side information are in one of these ("Other Way" towards the end). If you are trying to stay absolutely spoiler free, that's the one to scroll past.

**Rating**: Still **T**: mostly for Claire (naughty language, death threats to alarm clocks), Wesker (for being Wesker), and Chris (everything is about him!). It will change to **M** in the next part for overt sexual content. WARNING WARNING WARNINGS will be issued then as well.

**Thanks**: As always, to the Lovely Betas for their arrangement help and thumbs up; to all those who have read, and to those who take the time to leave feedback, as it is a hard and somewhat thankless task that means a whole lot; and especially to Chirika, Ruingaraf, and the Lex Hex for the substantial amount of geeking out yall have done with me this week. Much appreciated, all!

Enjoy!

* * *

Vienna Teng - "Nothing Without You"  
_Tell me it won't always be this hard_  
_I am nothing without you,_  
_but I don't know who you are_

There's an uncomfortable truth staring Jill in the face. It first peeked around the corner when she got to Europe and couldn't find Chris, and ever since, it's been showing more and more of itself.

Truth is...she doesn't really _know_ Chris Redfield.

They worked together, sure. They've been bound together by this fight. She feels things for him, and unless she's completely lost her mind, he feels something for her as well. Something that could be exciting, dangerous, and potentially...long-term.

But all of that is unconscious knowledge. If Claire popped into her room and decided to give her a quiz on Chris, she probably wouldn't make it past the second or third round. First, possibly. She knows scattered incidental facts, and she knows things about him, but she can't really link the two together.

Well. There are ways to fix that.

She borrows a set of shot glasses from one of the other boys, buys a decent whisky, and snags Chris. She sets everything up, looks him square in the face, and says, "We are going to play a game."

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Jonathan Coulton - "When You Go"  
_All of this time I knew  
__That I'd be losing you  
__That doesn't mean that it's OK  
__That doesn't mean I'm ready_

Growing up, there are two things Claire knows about her brother.

1) He is a pig-headed, mule earred, donkey minded stubborn stupid head who makes her laugh and keeps her safe.

2) He's going into the Air Force one day, because it's all he's talked about ever.

Seriously. While most girls she knew could rope their brothers into the occasional game of tag or house, she got to play Airmen. With her brother. She knows more about the rank and file of the Air Force than she does about ponies by the time she's in first grade. Looking back on it, she's sure that's some sort of crime, but hell if she knows what to charge him with. Maybe Criminal Overexertion of Brotherly Ideas.

So she knows he's leaving. She knows that losing their parents isn't going to change that. She knows that going to live with a sequence of family members until, finally, their aunt takes them in for good - that's not going to change it, either. Come her brother's 17th year, he's going to enlist. He's going early, he wants to go so badly.

This is his dream.

It surprises the hell out of her, though, when he goes to hug her goodbye - and she bursts into tears.

He hugs her still. He strokes her hair. He calls her all those quiet names between them. He promises he'll be back.

She just wants one more moment like this.

But she watches him leave instead.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Blind Guardian - "Time Stands Still (At the Iron Hill)"  
_I stand alone  
__No one's by my side  
__I'll dare you  
__Come out  
__You coward  
__Now it's me or you_

She doesn't blow up at him after they touchdown. Which is a whole messy business in itself, because European nations do _not_ like random fighter jets with no programmed flight plan suddenly showing up in their skies, hm? She's lucky he has his passport still on him. She's lucky the Umbrella freaks never got to hers.

The anger builds, but she holds it in. If there's something she's learned over time from her big brother, it's that there are actual times and places to do these things. Even if she mostly picks "Here and now"...well, that's still a time and a place, isn't it? But they need to get to a room first, to a private place, and then - then -

"What the fuck were you thinking?"

"It was your life," he responds, snagging her spare pillows to make a bed for himself on the floor. "And he just wanted me, Claire. He always just wants me."

His voice is so tired that it stops her for a second. Then she reaches out and grabs the pillows back.

"You can sleep on the damn bed, too," she tells him.

He gives her a dubious look, so she whacks him with the pillow. "I do not snore," she snarls.

"But you do punch," he says. "And I've been punched enough today."

She feels a prickle of conscience, but the anger is still too much for it. "Why does he hate you?" she asks.

Chris suddenly looks very weary, more than her older brother has any right to, more than he did in those days after the Air Force. "I wish I knew, Claire. I wish I knew if he just wanted some epic stand-off or what. Honestly, I don't give a rat's ass." He sighs. "I just wish he'd stayed dead."

And it's not over, like that, but it is over for that night, like that.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Self - "Pattycake"  
_what ya gonna prove  
__how you gonna prove it  
__there's no need to waste your life  
__shatter and abuse it, babe_

Claire finally gives up on the Anti-Umbrella movement the day they decide to send her brother and Jill to Eastern Europe.

First of all: Eastern Europe isn't a country, a capital, something you can easily point an airplane to and land in a spot and go, "Hey, Eastern Europe!" It's a giant fucking chunk of real estate, and they are sending two - TWO - agents of theirs to go deal with the shit there.

Second of all: they don't want to send her.

They make mealy mouthed noises about how she's still young, and she has this suspicion - faint and steadily getting stronger - that this pressure isn't just coming from the top. That certain people within the movement are going, "Holy shit, wee American adult! This could cause problems!"

Except she's been with them for two years at this point. Which is equal to the number of outbreaks she's survived. TWO. TWOOO. She's seen more action than most of them, and that could be said to include her older brother, who did not go through Raccoon City and people should stop assuming he's the Redfield who did.

She learns in her ranting to Jill all she needs to know about her feelings.

So she goes. She will make her own damn way against this virus. And they can kiss off.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Coldplay - "Viva La Vida"  
_I used to roll the dice  
__Feel the fear in my enemies' eyes_

Claire wakes up sometimes and thinks: I used to shoot people.

She's often tempted to shoot the alarm clock. She doesn't; it's the best annoying alarm clock she's found. Can't get the decibels off some of these newer ones. But that doesn't inspire the thought, it's more - an echo of her dreams. An echo of the days when danger was so much closer than a papercut.

She gets up. She showers, dresses. Gets her coffee. And sometimes, in the midst of that, she remembers when showering was a luxury. Coffee never was, because Europeans won't go without it, but showers - good clothes like this - they were.

She gets to her desk. She checks her e-mails, her phone messages. And sometimes, as she does that, she remembers when a good phone line was hard to come by. Much less e-mail. It had been a cheerful day when they'd managed to figure out how to get useful, reliable e-mail.

She is a solid, respectable citizen now who used to be in an underground.

And sometimes, still, she thinks about those days.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Trevor Hall - "Other Way"  
_How could it be any other way?_

The day Sherry tells him she got her certification, that she is now an official agent, Leon congratulates her.

He then calls up Jill and tells her they need to get drunk. Just the two of them.

It's not a time for drinking with Redfields. He calls Claire more often with his problems, a pattern that gently emerged post Harvardville. And Jill and Chris are, well, Jill and Chris. But they don't share the same burden that he and Jill and Sherry do. So they're out on this one.

He'd gotten in touch with Jill after his infection in 2004. She was the only one he knew who'd had something similar and stayed in this line of work, and though he didn't really know her, that fact bound them in a different kind of trust. And she listened. Sometimes he was so busy talking to ladies that he forgot about that fact, but with Jill, he got used to it. Eventually, he chipped her experience out of her, too. Same after she got back from Africa.

But in this case -

He needs someone who knows what it's like to carry that infection to the fight. To always wonder if you're going to turn. He needs this, because Sherry will need this. And he has to be able to give it to her.

But first, he needs to purge his other feelings.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

The Killers - "The Ballad of Michael Valentine"  
_Rock children hold your heads up high  
__In the night while I try  
__And tell the ballad of Valentine_

"You don't know who your Mom is?" Claire asked, eyes going wide.

Jill shook her head. She plucked a dandelion and held it up to Claire. "Chris ever teach you how to milk one of these?"

He'd been remiss, so Jill demonstrated. When they were both chewing on the bitter sap, Jill leaned back and looked to the sky overhead.

"My Dad," she said. "Michael. He was one of the first members of Delta Force, back when it was getting started in the 70s. But he'd done some work in special forces groups before then. He worked with a lot of the same guys then and in Delta, when I was around. When I got older, sometimes they liked to tell me stories about him." She shook her head. "They said he left a trail of fire and broken hearts wherever he went."

"And your Mom was one of those," Claire said.

Jill shook her head. "No," she said. "From what I gather - she broke his heart. Didn't want to play happy families with him, even though she kept me. Just - gave me to him and vanished."

"Do you know her name?"

"Funny, but no," she said. "The guys would say, 'Oh, you have her eyes, her mouth' - but they never would tell me her name." She tilted her head. "Just the way it goes sometimes."

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Dave Matthews Band - "The Last Stop"  
_You're righteous, so righteous, SO RIGHTEOUS  
__You're always so right  
__Go ahead and dream  
__Go ahead believe that you are the chosen one._

"Come to me, Jill."

She ascends the stairs gracefully, and he is glad to see it; no more halting movements, no more tiny jerks to her steps. No more resistance to the most basic commands. He's not a fool to believe there is no more resistance at all; whenever her eyes turn to him, he can still see it there, see it in the ruby gleams from the gem on her chest. But he'll take his little victories to get to his big one.

"Sit by me, Jill."

This command was harder than the others to teach her; she never wanted to sit as close as he needed. But they have gone over it, time again, given the reward and the punishment for it, and now she sits just as she should: her back against the arm of his chair, her head within reach of his hand.

He slips a gloved hand off and gently strokes her hair. It is soft and silky smooth, just as it had been all those years in S.T.A.R.S., in the video he'd seen of her in her activities afterwards. Jill had always had a little vanity when it came to her hair, else she would've worn it shorter. But she hadn't, and he'd seen through it, and he'd kept her hair very well in this place.

It makes fine loops around his fingers, and she barely shudders anymore. Excellent.

"He is coming, you know," he tells her, as if he were one human talking to another, and not a demi-god with his worship-slave. "He is coming, and he thinks he is coming for you."

His fingers tighten in her hair.

"But it is not you he truly comes for, Jill," he whispers to her, loops now taut around his fingers. "It is for me."

"In the old times, all gods, all heroes, all those who would bring salvation, they always faced one final enemy, one final test. Him in his righteousness, with his BSAA and his rules and laws, thinks he will be chosen. He thinks the final test lays before him. But it is my final test, Jill. It is I who am chosen. It is I who shall be a god."

"And it is Chris who shall fall."

He leans in, fingers loosening. "Remember that."


	4. Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down

Alternate titles for this part: "Sex and Heartbreak," "Angst, Sex, and Failure Prompts," and "Leon Gets Laid."

**Disclaimer**: _Resident Evil _and its characters, settings, and events all belong to Capcom. I am just scribbling silly notes in their margins. All songs belong to their respective artists and labels.

**Rating: **We've hit **M_, _**ladies and gents, for some rough language and some descriptions of sexual situations for both Ada/Leon and Claire/Leon.

**Author's Notes**: This section contains the first example of a prompt I failed to answer in the space of the song. Normally I stop, but in this case-and one in the next section-I decided to finish the thought. And since I enjoyed the answer, I am going to go ahead and inflict it on yall. Also, the first prompt references the events of the Raccoon City Incident as seen through the lens of _Darkside __Chronicles_; I am aware that this doesn't jibe with the canon of _Resident Evil 2_, but it fit with the prompt, so I went with it.

Thanks, as usual, to the Lovely Betas for help with arranging the prompts and titling the section. Thanks as well to everyone who's read through these, and special thanks to those who've taken a few moments to leave a review. Thanks as well to Jay Kennedy for keeping her awesome Tumblr as well.

I hope yall enjoy. :)

* * *

Melody Gardot - "Your Heart is as Black as Night"  
_I don't know why it came along  
__At such a perfect time  
__But if I let you hang around  
__I'm bound to lose my mind_

Ada wrapped herself around the wire that would take her out of Raccoon City and did her best not to think about Leon.

He was a kid, she reminded herself. Younger than her. Couldn't even drink. She'd glanced over his dossier before she'd gone into the city; they hadn't been sure when the outbreak would hit, and so future employees had been on the list as well as current ones. He came from a decent family, full of cops and straight edge lawyers. This justice stuff, this honor stuff, it ran in his blood.

Blood she'd had her hands in that night...

Blood she'd been sure she could taste, even in the brief kiss they'd shared.

And that's all that would happen if she found him again. If she tried to be part of his life.

Blood. Spilling out of both of them.

That's all it ever could be.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

K's Choice - "I Will Return to You"  
_Dry the rain inside my head_  
_To hear the things I never said_  
_I will return to you_

"There," she said with a flourish, finishing off the knot. "Test that."

Leon pulled lightly on the cord, and it held. "Looks good," he said. "Feels fine, too - not too tight." His eyes glittered. "Time for that dress to come off."

"Yes," Ada purred, reaching back to her zipper. "Yes, it - "

**BEEP BEEP BEEP**

_God-dammit_

Ada paused and looked to her left.

"Ignore it," Leon said through clenched teeth. "Ada, c'mon, you can just - "

She gave him a faded look, melancholy washed by time. "I could," she said. "I just don't think you can."

And Leon sat up.

He rubbed at his wrists for a moment, then at his eyes. Morning light seeped through the blinds, not bright enough to blind, but bright enough to be there.

He reached over and hit the alarm.

_Goddammit._

She was never coming back.

She never could be there in the first place.

_Goddammit._

_**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**  
_

Tori Amos - "Leather"  
_I could just pretend that you love me_  
_The night would lose all sense of fear_  
_But why do I need you to love me_  
_When you can't hold what I hold dear_

Leon comes with a grimace. He always does, and like always, he slumps to the side of her. He breathes for a long moment, and then he opens those eyes, blue like sky and grey like clouds, and asks, "All right?"

He always does this. And in the midst of the tingles and tangled fire in her veins, Ada nods back.

He closes his eyes, and as his breathing slows, one hand shifts to her shoulder to pull her closer. Leon always wants her closer. It's like he wants her flesh to be inseparable from his. He wants them to share the same air. He wants them to feel the same way, skin and soul both.

But they don't.

She - wants him to love her. He's seen all of her, after all, and right into her, right into that part of her that she thought she buried screaming years ago.

But for all he sees, he doesn't understand. His mind has been opened in a specific way by his experiences, and it's just not wide enough.

He can't really love what he doesn't understand.

So this'll be their last night together until he does.

Even though she prays he never will.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Katy Perry - "I Kissed a Girl"  
_Soft skin, red lips, so touchable_  
_Too good to deny it_

"Ah. Claire Redfield."

Claire looked up from her reports, shaking off the slight fog of data, to meet a pair of grinning almond eyes.

Well, shit.

"Ada Wong," she said. "Back from the dead - again? Or still? I can never quite keep up."

"Still, I think," Ada said. "You've been out of the game long enough to miss out on...recent events."

Claire offered a pleasant smile, holding in the biting comment behind it: _No, Leon still e-mails me. I know all about Spain._

"May I?" Ada said, indicating the chair next to her.

Claire took her in a second, then stood. "You know what?" she said. "I think we should just get this over with."

Ada's brow furrowed. "Over with, Ms. Redfield?"

"Yeah," she said, and kissed her.

(And had I had the time:

Ada wore lipstick, red lipstick, and though Claire was mostly gentle, she did her best to smear that lipstick across her mouth as much as she could. She noted when she pulled back that it had almost worked. The shock in Ada's eyes made up for the difference, though.

"I'm not fucking Leon," Claire said. "But I also don't fuck with him. So, if you don't mind? I've got some papers to read."

Ada's eyes were still wide with shock. Claire couldn't help but wonder when the last time she'd worn that expression was.

Then she gave a little nod, turned, and strode off into the airport terminal. She did not, Claire noted, touch her mouth once while she was still in sight.

Claire shook her head. "Of all the airports," she murmured to herself, then picked up her report again. She'd e-mail Leon about it tonight, just as a heads up in case she was supposed to be dead (again), but otherwise, she wanted it out of her brain. And nothing did that quicker than a report.)

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

BTVS Musical - "I'm Under Your Spell"  
_Now I'm bathed in light_  
_Something just isn't right_

After Harvardville, Leon and Claire see a little more of each other than just an e-mail address.

At first, Leon wonders if she's planning it. Claire's got connections now, and while they aren't as muckety-muckety (or fuckety fuck, as he occasionally thinks) as his connections, they can get things done. She can get things done. It's the force of personality that comes with being a Redfield; he's seen her brother pull off some shit that should not be possible.

But no, no, he eventually realizes it's just serendipity. Brought them together. Can bring them together again.

Then he's having drinks with her in a bar, and it's getting on the bar closing, and they're still talking. They're not even drinking much anymore. They're just still...talking.

And he thinks - "Something's wrong with this."

And he's not wrong about that.

But he's not right either.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Alexisonfire - "You Burn First"  
_Cover me, if there is a fire_  
_'cause I want you to burn first_

How long's it been, she asks in a voice like dripping honey, like the translucent cream on her thighs, wet and beckoning as she sits above him. Musk in the air - smell of him, smell of her - and the last thing he wants to do right now is to answer questions.

How long since -

Since you took, she asks, braiding one hand with hers, then the other, inching in above him. He's wrapped and waiting, willing and waiting, and she's still asking questions.

Since you did nothing but take, Leon, she breathes, centering herself over him.

He thinks, and it hurts to think right now but he does it anyways, and he finds the answer.

Years, Claire, he tells her. Years.

She smiles a little then, and it's the kind of smile with fangs in it. He bet her brother's seen that smile, though not in this context.

"Then take," she says, and slides down over him to give.

Guy's not supposed to come first, he bites out as she moves, as she rocks above him, fingers pressing on his knuckles.

Guys usually come first, she snaps back, a bite with her gums. Just the good ones do something about.

She quiets and moves, rolls, and the heat and the wet that pound around him and hold him down squeeze the air and the groans right out of him.

Can't...Claire, you gotta...I can't...

Shh, Leon. Shhh.

Claire -

Shut up and feel it! Feel me, Leon, like you've wanted to before.

He shuts up. He does. He feels, and feels her give, and in the end, he takes it all and comes first.

And she smiles when he does.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Thea Gilmore - "Razor Valentine"  
_I love you like the last shot_  
_At the bottom of the bottle_  
_I love you, razor valentine_

They're intertwined on a hotel mattress. Nice hotel. Nice mattress, too. The window is open, and the breeze that rolls off the sea is nice, too.

Nice to be out of Virginia. Nice to be on another coast all together. Nice to listen to the waves crash on the shore and think, "I don't have to ask the waves to turn it down in case the President calls."

Nice. Oh so nice.

She feels nice there, skin against skin. Her hair is a shock of red against the mattress, dark as a bloodstain on white sheets. He's always wondered why hotels bother with white sheets, but it's probably a point of pride to them at this point.

Her eyes are closed. She always rests when they're done. She breathes deep, and the tiny stress lines on her face relax, and her eyes fall shut.

He wants to kiss those eyes. He wants to lay one on each of the stress marks. He wants to take a little bit of that from her, every time they meet up like this. And it's not often. And it's not really necessary, for who they are.

But sometimes, they are what each other needs.

And in that space, he loves her.

Will always love her.


	5. Like a Broken Record

The final part.

Not that I can seem to stop writing these, but this so far, these are most of the ones fit for public consumption. Perhaps if I make another set, there may be more parts. We shall see.

**Disclaimer**: _Resident Evil'_s characters, settings, and events all belong to Capcom. The song bits featured below all belong to their artists and labels. I own nushing, I am just over in the corner, scribbling strange things.

**Disclaimer 2**: Angst angst angst angst Jill and Chris Jill/Chris angst angst angst. Another title for this part was "The Post-Spencer Estate Blues," so spoilers for everything _Resident Evil 5 _are present. The title for this part came from thelexhex, who offhandedly referenced Excella's "Jill Jill Jill - you're like a broken record, you know that?" from _Resident Evil 5 _in a comment. It fits.

**Rating**: Still M. Bad language and a couple instances of erotic vocabulary are down there in the angst soup.

**Thank you**: To everyone: those behind the scenes, and those reading right now. You look awesome today, by the way. :)

* * *

Poe - "Spanish Doll"  
_This place feels so unfamiliar  
__And yet I know it well  
__I think I used to belong here_

Chris came back to the BSAA, and everyone bent over backwards to make it seem like nothing had changed.

Which is why he left, as soon as he could. Paper work was filed; clearances were in. Other branches of the BSAA had use for him, and he had use for the work.

- Christ, they put her in the _ground_. His partner. No body, sure, but they - the two of them - had stood by so many empty coffins or coffins filled with tatters at this point that it barely registered anymore. It was an amazing, odd thought that they would ever be buried fully, that their caskets would be open, that there would be anything left to them but a memorial with their names on it and a mouldering pine box underneath.

Neither had ever specified cremation in their wills. They didn't think they needed to, given how little would actually be left if they ever went down in this fight.

It wasn't that he was angry about not having a body. He was angry he had to do this at all. Angry at the BSAA, angry at Wesker, angry a little at Jill and hell, of course, angry at himself.

So he left. DC had been a place of promise just a year prior, but now it had nothing left. Maybe with time, some of that promise would return. And he, too, would return, if only to pay his respects to that marker.

Wonder if one day, he'd be there beside her, sharing that emptiness.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Sufjan Stevens - "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is Out to Get Us!"  
_Though we have sparred, wrestled and raged  
I can tell you, I love him each day_

At first, she can get hold of him on the phone. She does it mostly through texts, because Chris isn't always in the position to pick up, but he's picked up texting pretty well. She taught him, after all. She made him learn.

He had promised her once, in the low light of a European airport, that he would do better about keeping in touch. She did her best to make him keep that promise with every update to technology that came along.

But then he starts traveling. He starts taking missions from each Branch of the BSAA, rather than having them funnel through to him through the North American BSAA or the main HQ. And she knows he's grieving, she knows he's putting himself into his work to process all of this. It's what he's done since they were kid. It's why he ran to Europe in the first place.

Funny how things don't change in eight years: once he ran to Europe on a quest of vengeance! And now he goes to Europe because it is, apparently, the only place to purge himself of his sorrows. Not just Europe anymore, either; he's all over the place. And texting doesn't reach him so well anymore.

She complains to her friends about it, talking about her no-good brother. She complains to the men or women in her life, whoever she can get to stay around long enough to unload some of her problems. She quietly switches to e-mail to keep in touch, and she sends one off at least once a week. The replies that trickle in come back with much more time between them than that.

She doesn't realize how much it's bothering her, though, until she and Leon finally go for coffee. And that's only because Leon looks at his watch once, then up at her, and says, "You realize you've been telling me about Chris for twenty-five minutes, right?"

"No clue." She sinks in her seat, rubs her hand over her face. "I'm sorry, Leon, I just - "

"Love him," he says.

"Yeah," she replies. "Can't help that now, can I? Especially when he's hurting."

(And if I'd had time...

He nods. "Then maybe we should figure out new ways for you to bug him."

"I have always loved a man with a plan." She sits up in her seat. "Lay it on me, oh wise agent. How can I better bug my brother?"

Because yeah, he's pigheaded and grieving in all the wrong ways, and she will tear a strip out of him the next time she gets a chance. But he's still her brother, and even when he's an asshole, she loves him.

Besides, she knows he'd do the same for her. 'Cause he already did.)

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Evanescence - "My Immortal"  
_Your presence still lingers here..._  
_There's just too much that time cannot erase_

"Mr. Redfield! Mr. Redfield!"

Chris turned just in time to catch a barreling intern by the shoulder. "Whoa! Careful there."

She ducked his hand and shoved a stack of papers at him. "The reports you asked for," she said.

"Thanks, uh, Sara," he replied, taking the stack.

She beamed, and dashed off before he could finish, "You could just e-mail these, you know."

But she was gone, off with much more energy than he had these days.

There was the barest tingle on the back of his neck, and then her presence settled on his shoulders, light as a butterfly's touch. "She's cute," came the ghostly whisper.

"She's young," he said, turning back to the elevator.

"Thought that didn't matter." Teasing. Always teasing.

"And I'm not interested," he said, stabbing the button.

Her presence sifted off him, but barely was he in the elevator when she came through the door, arms folded over her chest.

"I'm the dead one, you know," Jill said, eyes sharp on him.

"Oh, I know."

She made an annoyed face. "You'd think it was yesterday, not eighteen months ago," she said. "What's it going to take, Chris?"

He reached up - because he couldn't help himself, even now - and brushed at the outline of her face. "Time," he said.

"Patience and time?"

"To do it right," he finished, and let his hand fall. "We were partners for eight years, Jill. Eighteen months...just isn't enough."

Her eyes lost their hard edge, that narrow look, and became one of sorrow and sympathy.

She faded from view.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Theophilus London - "I Stand Alone"  
_The journey starts beneath the stars_  
_I stand alone_  
_I put all my fears to all these years  
Swept away they're known_

Chris arrived back from yet another mission, and he followed his usual routine: check in at the office; make sure there were no urgent messages on mail or phone; pick up something full of meat and a six pack of beer; go home.

Normally when he got home, he'd eat, drink, and let the mission out of his pores. He wouldn't think about her. He might call Claire, though, if She got to prey too much on his mind.

This time, though, was different.

He bought the wrong six pack and didn't even notice. He skipped right over a message at the office. And when he got home, he didn't relax, didn't check to see what sports were playing or what mail he'd missed.

He pulled out his laptop, fished out a data stick, and plugged it in again. He found the folder without a problem and opened it up, staring at the data the same way he had for the last three nights.

It said that Jill was out there.

And that meant he suddenly had a new mission.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

OK Go - "Let It Rain"  
_Let it rain, Let it pour_  
_Let it rain, Let it pour_

The day of Jill's funeral is sunny, blue, and a little humid. Well, it's DC. It's always a little humid, but as far as swamp city days go, it could be worse.

Every other time he goes to visit her grave is a copy of that day: sunny, blue, and a little humid. Sometimes there's a little more grey than others, but Chris seems to instinctively time his visits for good days. He prefers to see her on those days; or really, this memorial to her.

He wonders if everyone felt as stupid talking to an empty grave as he did. He wonders if they all got over it as quickly as he did.

So of course, the time he goes to visit her grave before Africa, when he has a thimbleful of proof that he might find a reason to tear down this gravestone - it pours. The sky opens, and it fucking drenches him, his gear, and his flowers, all before too long passes.

This is fitting, too, he thinks. No time to talk. Just time to lay his wishes and go.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Shiina Ringo - "Yame ni Furu Ame"  
_Whether what rains down on you is rain or fate_  
_It doesn't mean you can forgive it_  
_I'll always protect it with this hand_  
_Keep it by your side_

If there's one thing Jill knows when she gets back from Africa, it's that all of them are just waiting for her to crack.

Surviving the Mansion? Raccoon City and Nemesis? Europe with the _Zenobia_ and the Caucasus? Watching friends die, watching her partner grind himself down in the search for Wesker, both feeling that it's hopeless? Waking up from dreams in the dark of the night of Chris dying, Chris always impaled on Wesker's hand, of Wesker's smile and Wesker's laugh as that bloody hand reaches for you?

Yeah, none of that really *registered*. She has always been a paragon of mental health! But two years spent being used an experiment - none of that is gonna come into play to shield her against any of that. She never needed to cope! So she never has had a coping mechanism. Ever.

(Not when she was a little girl and her dad used to sit there with a shot glass and lock, smoking as she worked the picks, that cherry hot brand of it waving close to her hair or her face or skin. No. Nothing from that. Or the Army. Or any of that other training. Had no bearing.)

Chris is different. He doesn't expect her to crack. He has no expectations about it at all. What he does understand is that she is going to hurt.

So when she says, "I fucking hate this, you know," out of nowhere on a slightly cloudy day, just because DC's pre-rain smell reminds her of some of those labs and that was ground into her nostrils - he's alarmed for a moment. But he doesn't pull over and try to piece her back together. He just lets her talk for a while.

He just lets her get out what she needs.

And then they don't talk about it anymore until she needs it again.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Thea Gilmore - "God Knows"  
_I think you know I still love you_  
_You're still the brightest glow aroun_d

After Africa, Jill learns the meaning of patience.

Patience with the BSAA, with all their testing and verifications. Patience with all the forms, all the red tape, every last bit of bureaucracy she has to endure in order to get her identity back. It's not even her life, really, just her ability to have that life. She never understood the sharp difference until now.

Patience with people, who treat her with a careless curiosity or like a vase of the most fragile porcelain already showing cracks. They don't seem to remember that she was cracked before, that this life she chose has been all about her putting the pieces of herself back together for years.

Patience with herself, and those days when all she wants to do is curl up in shadows under the bed because for two years, they were her best friend. When she has to remind herself to eat because there is no more feeding tube. When she has to remember all the intricacies of being with other people, and when she has to tell herself to sleep some more, because no one is coming to give a drug that will keep her on her feet for hours.

And patience with Chris.

Chris, who she just wants to wrap herself around and feel the heat, feel the touch, that used to sear her skin so. But she has to wait until he's ready for her feelings again.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

Matthew Good Band - "Carmelina"  
_my filthy mouth_  
_well it hides my clean selves_

It only takes a few weeks of them, uh, fucking, for Jill to realize a very important facet to Chris Redfield's personality.

Namely, that he has two of them. At least, that's all she's found so far, just the two of them.

There's the one that's with her at work, quiet and kind, hating on reports, prone to rolling his eyes at Forest and Dewey and standing up very straight when Wesker calls them to attention. He's a good worker, and he's obviously a good guy.

Then there's the one that's with her when she calls up and asks, "What are you up to tonight?"

It's the one that pins her to the door, hand under her skirt, finger slipping so deftly between panty and skin that her gasp is both from that first touch and his touch on her clit.

It's the one that holds her above him, hands clasped, as their bodies rock together and he strains her name between her teeth.

It's the one that whispers to her in bed when the dark isn't quite on them both, talking of things hot and hard and slick, that can often get them going yet another time.

She can understand it, of course. She was in the military, too. You learn to hide what they want you to hide.

And she can whisper to him, right back.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

The Killers - "Romeo and Juliet"  
_When we made love you used to cry_

Getting Chris Redfield to cry - out and out cry, with tears and hard breaths and lumpy throats and everything - is not as hard as it seems. But getting him to do it outside of certain contexts is nigh-impossible. It is not an emotion that takes him by surprise. It is one that he rations out, controls in all its degrees, and outside of that, doesn't let show. That's Chris's way: his heart may be on his sleeve, but he knows it, and keeps a handle on it.

Jill knows this. She's gathered the data over years of the two of them together, put together the pieces of the puzzle, and figured out when it's most likely to happen. She carries tissues. She does not offer condolences. He is crying because he allows it, and she's got that one down pat.

So when she leans over him, rolling her hips against the stretch of him inside her, the last thing she expects to see on his face is tears.

Her eyes go wide. His immediately close. Another tear streaks down from his eye, bright neon against his cheek.

"Baby," she whispers, leaning in, kissing the corner of his eye. "I'm here, baby."

His hands shake as he touches her, smooths them over her skin, and they don't stop. Shaking. Touching. And it takes him a long time, a painful long time, with those touches and kisses, to whisper back, "I know. I really know. Jill - "

She kisses him, and he her, and in the wake of tears comes the frenzy, kisses and touches and in the end, straining against each other, as if they could break through skin to touch what lay on the inside.

They don't talk about it afterwards.

**‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›‹›**

UA - "milk tea"  
Don't hesitate, just hold me  
Bring your gentle shoulders close to mine

They choose to be together, and it's not an easy thing.

She's recovering. _He's_ recovering, though people like to ignore that fact. Two years of guilt and self-recrimination, of course that's gone once she's back from the dead. Of course! People are just like paintings; you can just paint over old feelings with new coats of happiness!

Yeah, no. Neither paintings nor people work like that. He knows it. She knows it.

They choose to be together, and it's not all sunshine and roses.

She wants back in on this war they're fighting. And it's still a war. Just because you win a major battle doesn't mean the fight ends. Wars don't end without surrender, and this war on bioterror? No one is lining up to surrender to them. There are no white flags being waved. There are just...less options...sometimes.

And that's not getting into what it does to both of them to know that they're going to be out in the field again. They train other people, and they do their best to prepare them, but the human mind doesn't always work like that. You can't scare someone without making it a tangible fear for them. And that's hard with zombies. Harder than anyone would expect.

They choose to be together, and it's not easy.

But it's their choice.

And some days, like this day, when he comes in and gives her that look, she knows what the best thing to do is. She comes to him and puts her arms around him, and he puts his arms around her, and for a moment, the circle of the world is just them.

They choose to be together. For this, and what comes with it. They choose.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I know better than to promise 'fic again, because then life and Capcom FUBAR all my plots. So let me just thank everyone who read through to this author's note. Much appreciated, as always :)

Ack, and before I forget again - Chris and Jill's shade quote the song "Got My Mind Set On You" by George Harrison in the "My Immortal" response. Which is, come to think of it, more meta than I had been intending with that.


End file.
